It starts with frustration (maddeningly readjusting the sink handle to see if a proper position will stop the drip), but it only ends in heartache (as every wasted drip turns into a punch to the face).
Every drip hitting porcelain, screaming out, echoing infinitely, ringing through the brain just long enough for the next drip to strike. Every drip a small, wet, constant reminder of things gone undone. Every drip listlessly apathetic, completely resolute. Every drip: admonition. Every drip a lemming to the previous, and a prophecy of the drip yet to be. Every drip a reason for tears.
As my tears hit the basin (in unison, or a polyrhythmic fashion) it becomes harder to determine which tears belong to which creator. It becomes impossible to determine which tears hold meaning.
No comments:
Post a Comment